


Careful You

by Azgrave



Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: F/F, so'hara
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-16 18:39:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9284987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azgrave/pseuds/Azgrave
Summary: You might make a few questionable life decisions, have an out of control alter-ego when you drink too much, and some unrealistic expectations for the dream of your life (not that you aren’t already living the dream), but you one hundred-and-ten percent are not an idiot. You’re Stanford educated for crying out loud. You know that getting involved with a teammate is a terrible idea.





	

You’re not an idiot.

You might make a few questionable life decisions, have an out of control alter-ego when you drink too much, and some unrealistic expectations for the dream of your life (not that you aren’t already living the dream), but you one hundred-and-ten percent are not an idiot.

You’re Stanford educated for crying out loud.

You know that getting involved with a teammate is a terrible idea. The actual worst. You literally made a pro/con list about it once while you were in college with your roommate. _Maybe living happily ever after_ is always easily outweighed by _Breakup Drama_. (Breakup drama includes a list of its own, varying from splitting up friendships, hostile teammates, having to pick a side, awkward encounters with each other that you cannot avoid, being roomed together by a coach who’s an idiot and hasn’t noticed the tension. The list goes on, but we’ll stop here.)

And sure, maybe you also prefer athletes (you’re not even against getting involved with players from _other teams_ ), because honestly, who else could keep up with your lifestyle. But you’ve managed to keep your resumé clean.

You’re proud of it. It’s a small banner of accomplishment.

The problem here is, that if you’re not idiot (we’ve established this already), you’re not quite sure what exactly you are. Because you’ve only been at this club an hour (celebrating one last time before camp starts and the diets tighten), and you’ve probably spent 95% of that time keeping track of a dirty-blonde head of hair who’s currently in what some might consider a dance battle with Crystal (who’s not even trying, laughing more than anything, but the victor by far). The other 5% involved getting drinks (Yes, multiple. Yes, maybe they aren’t both for you.)

And it’s only another moment later that she spots you, just on the periphery of the dance floor. It’s dark and it’s loud, but it’s always been easy for people to find you. And another second later she’s miming a lasso, reeling you in. And with a laugh (and a soft drop in your stomach you choose to ignore), you allow yourself to be “pulled” in.

She’s grinning hard when you get there, cheeks already flushed with heat (presumably), and hilarity (definitely). And her eyebrow quirks just slightly as you close the gap, expectantly maybe, and then wordlessly she takes the second drink from your hand. She doesn’t say thank you. Just takes a sip, slips you an exaggerated wink and continues on, rolling closer, dance battle forgotten.

The heavy beat in the air drags on and she’s hot up against you, breathy laugh in your ear, one hand slipping around your waist and resting on a hip bone, tugging you just a little closer.    

You know you’re not an idiot, but you just might be in trouble.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s sometime after midnight and you find yourselves stumbling outside to the club’s patio. You’ve been dancing for at least the last hour (you’ve lost track of time and you’ve been so caught up in what’s been going on that you can’t be sure) but easily followed when took a light hold of your wrist.

She follows close behind you up to the patio bar, resting her chin on your shoulder, hands wrapped lazily around you as you grab ahold of the bartender’s attention. You could swear you feel fingertips skimming along the bottom of your shirt while you’re adding a couple of Rum and Cokes to your tab (you try to ignore that she hasn’t paid for a drink all night, but is easily the more intoxicated of the two of you).

You can physically feel her body humming, energy pouring off in waves. And you can see her face light up again when you separate, turning around with drinks in hand. You can’t help but hold hers just slightly out of reach, grinning, challenging, while a droplet of condensation starts to run down your hand.

“What? Did you think this was for you?”

She scoffs lightly, but you can see the corner of her mouth twitch up, just slightly.

“Oh, it’s definitely for me. I don’t think I saw anyone else here interested with sharing their top notch dance moves with you.” It’s not really the truth, the whole night has been spent dodging guys who wanted nothing more than to interrupt them. “I mean, who could resist this.”

And suddenly she’s shimmying at you ridiculously, and you can’t help but to laugh.

“Oh well, yes, that is absolutely true, and you are just absolutely irresistible when you do that in front of me.” You can’t help the slight dip in your voice. She might be ridiculous, and you might be teasing, but there’s still the swooping feeling in your stomach from earlier with the look you keep finding in her eye.

You hand over her drink with a flourish.

She curtsies and takes it, fingers brushing fingers, before she takes a decidedly unladylike swallow.

You’re pretty sure your ears are flaring up now, unwittingly red hot while you feel your skin tingle. And then she grins, devilish.

“Lame.” There’s a teasing lilt to voice. “Here I thought you were really gonna make me work for it. I had a whole dance routine worked out, and all it took was that? Maybe I need to take my _awesome_ dance moves somewhere else.”

Your eyebrow is peaking, a silent _oh yeah?_ And she just grins on, close-lipped and smug while you take a sip of your drink, still staring over the brim of your cup.

“Well, it’s not like the night is over. There’s always time for another show.”

And maybe, maybe you’re falling into an age old trap. And maybe you know it. But when she tips her cup up, finishing the contents before setting the cup on the bar behind you, you’re not sure you can help it. Especially not with her leaning closer, where you can smell coconut from her body wash, and the rum on her breath.

“I can work with that.” She whispers.

And she pulls away, snagging _your_ drink out of _your_ hand, backing away with all the swagger of a slightly drunk (but very successful) pirate. Draining _your_ drink dry in a single swallow, motioning for you to follow.

And you do.

Pulled back into the dark, and the heavy beats, and the body guiding you.

And you think that maybe, maybe she’s pressing even closer than she was before as she slips around behind you. And maybe she’s got both hands on your hips now, fingertips on the right slipping below the fabric of the waist of your jeans, still cool from holding her drink compared to your rapidly heating flesh. And maybe you should be remembering your pro/con list.

But you’re not.

And yeah, there’s no maybe’s about it. You’re definitely in trouble.  

 

* * *

 

 

The club closes at two, so you figure it’s around that time. You’d stayed till the lights came on, till the music died down, drinking rum and each other’s undivided attention. And now, when you really should have just called for an Uber, you’ve decided to walk back to the hotel, promising Christen you’d text her when you made it as she rounded up the others.

And you’re laughing, as you both continue to shimmy walk down the sidewalk, teasing each other. Energy still alive despite the late hour, two balls of energy not ready to die out just yet.

“—oh man, and then he tried to cut in and I thought Tobin was gonna put him through the floor.” She laughs brightly again. Turned towards you, attention rapt.

And really, you’re amazed she’s walking as well as she is. You’re not sure whether her tolerance is that high, or if you’ve literally danced out all the major effects.

“Oh I know. That look on her face--OH MY GOD!”

And she stops dead in her tracks at your outburst.

“What? What!?”

She’s dropped into a low stance, looking, comically, like someone caught in the act and ready to run. Head on swivel, trying to see what you see.

And you just point, waiting for her to catch sight (or maybe the smell), of what must be a hallucination in front of you. And you catch the look of realization, turning to wonder, turning to absolute determination, as she does see what you see.

An honest to god, late night cookie shop named _Insomnia_ of all things, that’s still open, brightly lit, and beckoning to you both.

“Oh. My. God. Kel. Kel it’s fate. It’s insanity drunk o’clock and there’s a cookie place that’s still open and you _NEED_ to take me there _RIGHT NOW.”_

And you’re laughing as she’s starting to drag you down the street by your arm.

“Hey, hey, hey now Hulk! Slow your roll!” To her credit, despite the scent of sugar in the air, she does, bringing you both to a stop and turning to face you on the sidewalk, looking at you expectantly, if not a little impatiently. “Time for you to pay up. Where are those _sweet dance moves_ you were bragging about earlier.” You can’t help yourself.

“Oh those? Well, club’s closed now, looks like you missed your chance.” She doesn’t even miss a beat, shoulders shrugging, while she’s basically twisting in her shoes, desperate to continue on.

And you can play that game too.

“Hm. Well that’s too bad, ya know, we probably should just get back. Dawn’s diet isn’t gonna start itself, the earlier the better.” And you start drifting away, back towards the direction of the hotel.

“ _Don’t you_ _dare Kelly_. _”_

And you can’t tell if it’s the low voice laced with something you can’t identify, if it’s the veiled threat of violence over _food_ , or if it’s just Emily Sonnett being Emily Sonnett that stops you in your tracks.

“Convince me.” You’re not really sure what specifically you’re asking for. You’re telling yourself It’s really just your competitive nature waking up, telling you to challenge her.

And she does take it as a challenge, you think. And really, you shouldn’t have doubted that. Emily Sonnett might love a good smoothie, a _Miss-Kelly-Special_ , but she also loves a good cookie, and she loves getting what she wants from you.

She takes a half step forward and tugs you forward the rest of the way by the front of your jeans. Her hand rests there, fingers slipped just inside the denim, holding you there. There’s an intensity (albeit somewhat hazy, the alcohol effect slipping through just slightly) in her eyes, and you smell the sweet sugar and rum on her breath as she drops her voice an octave.

“Kelly O’Hara. I just spent the night gifting you with this body as both eye candy and being the ultimate dance partner. I saved you from that walking steroid when you were cornered at the bar. And for whatever _godforsaken reason_ ,” She looks particularly scathing here, like she can’t even believe herself, “I’ve kept my mouth to myself so you can have your _dumb_ rule about teammates.”

She doesn’t wait for your response, just tangles your fingers together as she drags you forward along the sidewalk. And you’re absolutely silent, cheeks on fire, jaw basically on the floor as you allow her drag you into Insomnia.

You knew there was something happening between you too. It hasn’t been just tonight, this playful thing, but it has definitely, especially been tonight. It was always okay to acknowledge things as long as you didn’t act on them, though. Didn’t break the rule.  

She picks the most expensive cookie and adds a scoop of French vanilla ice-cream.

You don’t want the _break up drama_ part of the pro/con list.

She orders your favorite cookie too, and asks for a small bottle of chocolate milk from the fridge behind the counter.

You don’t want terrible awkwardness, and hostile team splits.

She pays this time. Not even allowing you to reach for your card.

What you don’t want is an _end._ It’s something of a startling realization. That’s the only thing you’re worrying about. Because, despite every self-preservation instinct and desire to follow your single and only rule, you don’t want an end, but maybe just maybe, you might really want a start.

 

* * *

 

 

You’re sitting on the lip of the fountain outside the hotel. If there’s anything that’s atypical, it certainly isn’t you feeling awkward after her statement. Rather, it’s that it _wasn’t_ awkward. She just casually slipped her arm through yours and you both walked back, nibbling at your cookie store haul. Just meandering back, together.

And there’s a happy energy between you two. And your skin is still buzzing, the way it has been all night, but it definitely isn’t the alcohol now.

And your thighs are touching, heating radiating through fabric, and you’re finding yourself wishing you could feel her hands again, the way they’d rested on your hips earlier.  And you’re finding your resistance failing. Finding yourself questioning why you have such a _dumb_ rule when you got perfectly, awkward, perfectly goofy, perfectly wonderful and beautiful Emily sitting _right there beside you_.

Emily, mid-chew, looks at you sideways. “Whatcha thinkin’ about Kel?”

And you want to tell her everything.

You can’t. There aren’t words.

You hum and release a soft sigh instead.

“Look, for what’s it worth. I get it. It’s not actually a dumb rule. It’s admirable. Really.” And you know she’s being honest. Her words are soft. “I mean, I’m not sure how you resisted me when I spent all night trying to get you to give in, but I can admire that.” And there’s her sarcasm, accentuated with a heavy smirk and an over-exaggerated wink.

You laugh, lightly, but full. Watch her take a bite of ice-cream and grin around her spoon.

You’re watching her and realizing this whole time you’ve been a little bit of an idiot.

A Stanford educated, rule following, idiot.

She finishes what she has left, stands and dusts herself off. Extends her hand to you with a smile. And your stomach does that swooping thing again when you reach out and take it, letting her pull you up. Tangling your fingers instead of letting them drop.

You think, maybe never getting involved with a teammate is better as a _guideline_ than a hard and fast rule.

She goes to turn, to lead you both hand-in-hand, a happy match back into the hotel at the end of a long night so you can both rest before Dawn murders you both in the fitness testing to come.

But this time you reach out and stop her. Tugging at the waistband of her jeans, fingertips skimming just the barest bit of flesh, goosebumping under your touch.

“Hey, hulk. Slow your roll,” you finally murmur. And suddenly she’s fully facing you, more still than she’s been all night.

“What’s up Kel?” she asks, equally low. Eyes curious, but twinkling with that unidentifiable something from earlier.

“It’s a dumb rule,” you concede. And she chuckles, because you haven’t said much of anything for the last twenty minutes, and this is what you have to say now, which means she knows you haven’t stopped thinking about it (She certainly had to have suspected though). And she nods.

And you think she understands what you’re failing to communicate, because suddenly there are hands on your hips, right where you were wanting them. And there’s a tugging bringing you closer. And she’s giving you one last look, one last instant to bow out.

An instant you don’t take advantage of. An instant you never even thought about.

And suddenly you’re both shifting, there’s a hand tilting your chin, slipping behind your ear, cradling you in a soft way you had no idea she was capable of. And then she’s kissing you, lips turned up as she grins the whole time. Eyes closed but still crinkling in that way that she does. And you’re tugging at her waist still (even though, somehow, you know she’s not going anywhere), keeping her close.

And when you break (it was simple, it was closeness, a beginning that tasted like vanilla ice-cream and just the barest hint of lingering rum), you stay close.

And Emily, in her way, just laughs a soft “Idiot” against your lips.

So you kiss her again, just a soft nip at her bottom lip, before you respond with a laugh.

“First of all _I Know!_ Second of all, _Rude!”_

**Author's Note:**

> Finally decided to try and write a thing rather than just reading, so first attempt jitters and all that.  
> Let me know what you think.  
> FYI. Insomnia is a real place, that actually stays open till like, 3 or 4 in the morning, and will deliver boxes of cookies at absurd hours. I love it.
> 
> Fully accessible at my joke of a tumblr.  
> writing-to-stay-awake.tumblr.com/


End file.
